Confessions
by Seph
Summary: Even when a person changes, he may not cut all ties to his past. Akabane centric.


Disclaimer: Akabane belongs to Aoki Yuya and I am merely borrowing Bane-san without his knowledge. That is, assuming Bane-san can be controlled by anyone.

AN: I always wanted to write an Akabane centric fic. This idea blindsided me just one night and I had to put it down. However, now that I am done, I doubt the possibility of such an event occuring. I hope he doesn't sound too ooc.

**Confessions**  
By Seph

"Forgive me, Father; I have sinned."

Head bowed, eyes cast downward and hands folded neatly over his lap, he projected the image of the peaceful penitent man.

On a cursory glance, business associates would notice a slight deviation from the image they were used to, but would be hard pressed to discern the difference. There was no discrepancy from his ordinary attire, no pieces missing from that black on white under black pattern of tie, shirt, and coat arrangement. His valued hat too, although temporary taken off to the side, was there beside him as a familiar attendance.

It was probably the hair. Out of deference to his surroundings, his normally wild raven mane was tied back with a black cord. The light which filtered through wooden walls reflected dully upon habitually concealed pale skin.

His appearance was in the realm of respectability.

This, however, was merely a physical change and barely disturbed the core of who he was. Just like his blood drenched overcoat, despite being washed clean of brown stains, it was no less saturated in death.

"You have killed," came the forbearing voice beyond the barrier. The simple words were no longer a question; they ceased being one three years ago.

"I live in the thrall of it." He lifted his head, but the drawn drapes barely allowed enough opening for him to make out the patient eyes through the thickgrating. It was probably similarly hard for himself to be seen, but that was for the best. Even without the emotions being apparent, he knew disappointment welled behind that central divider.

A cloud of silence bore down as the bluntness was digested. Dispersing it were the words, "Thou shalt not kill. It's the sixth of the Ten Commandments." It was a tender rebuke, a useless one; both the speaker and listener knew would have no effect.

"The original phrase translated from the Hebrew is 'Thou shalt not commit murder.'" He corrected the other matter of factly. The tone was not contentious, but neither was he yielding.

"Death is death, no matter how came the end."

Those words invoked the image of another kind of death, one deep into the past and far beyond his surrounding confines. Bodies which were not partitioned from sharp metallic cuts, but torn asunder by blasts and explosions; the horror strewn across a war torn field dyed in a crimson tide.

In the small space of the present, the answer that came out was a quiet, "I know."

There came a pause on the other side, then a question, its attempt tentative, but not hopeful, "When will you stop?"

Just as quiet as his previous answer, but with also an added little spark of undercurrent. A glimpse to the soul inside; the human imprisoned by the layers above. "Until I find the meaning of death, Father."

With that, the confession was over. The curtain to this rare meeting was drawn to a close until the next time this sinner desires to seek out the priest. The wooden closet opened for the respectable man to emerge. Dressed in his impeccable black and white outfit, he carried a deceptive smile open to anyone's interpretation.

Down the long silent walkway he went, between the rows of empty, desolate pews until he emerged once again into the world through the open triple doors. He went back to the mayhem beyond, to a world that teeming with death, the meaning of which he sought.

What he did not catch was the sounds of the other door of the tiny booth sliding open; nor did he see the pained visage of the robed man he knew back from his doctoring years. He did not hear it when his old friend asked a question in response, since he had already stridden off, "Why do you hate yourself so, Kuroudo?"

Or perhaps he knew the question was coming, but just did not wish to answer it.


End file.
